The Dom Next Door

I remember the day Mr. Jones moved in next door like it was yesterday.

It was an extremely hot July day with nothing going on. The moving van was the most exciting thing that I had seen come down our street all summer. I stood at the window and watched the movers pull box after box into the blue two-story clapboard house next door.

Excitedly, and just as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift, I decided to bake a pie and take it over to our brand-new neighbors.

I can remember that day so clearly that even thinking back now, I can feel the breeze in my long blond hair that I had parted into braids due to how hot it was. The braids had loosened and grown messy during my cooking, but I paid them no mind. I was just too excited to meet the new neighbors to even care what I was looking like.

Balancing the pan filled with hot sticky pie on a flimsy oven mitt, I eagerly knocked on the door, fidgeting back and forth with excitement.

The door creaked open, revealing a large man that practically filled the doorway with his size, or maybe that was how I felt looking at him. From the look of him, despite his age, he definitely was not a man to be messed with. However, there was a gentleness in his warm, sweet, chocolate brown eyes as he looked down at me, and they caused my heart to beat a bit faster.

"Why, hello, sweetheart," he greeted me, his lips turning up slowly in a welcoming grin.

His jet black hair sat in messy waves around his head, making him look much younger and boyish than I knew he had to be. But, it didn't make me want to run my hands through them any less.

"Hi!" I chimed excitedly. "I'm Rebecca Delaney. I live right next door to you!"

"Hello, Miss Rebecca. I'm Noah Jones. I live right here," he said with a wink.

A faint blush stole over my cheeks as those warm eyes slide down my body taking in my purple spaghetti strap shirt and bright green shorts that I had thrown on to combat the August heat. The glint in his eyes made my heart flip a little and my stomach tighten into knots.

"What can I do for you, honey?" he asked, reminding me softly that I was there for a reason.

"Oh!" I exclaimed with embarrassment. "I made this!"

All but shoving the pie into his hands, I forgot for a moment about the oven mitt underneath it to keep my hands from touching the burning hot metal.

"OW!" I cried, jerking my hand back.

Mr. Jones was left to grab the hot plate. Letting out one of the vilest curses that I had heard in my life, he fumbled with it for a moment before letting the pan drop to the ground. The pie landed upside down on his front steps, destroyed and oozing red cherry syrup everywhere. Mr. Jones cradled his burned had slightly cursing and glaring at the mess on his front step.

Embarrassed and with a throbbing hand, I stumbled back as the tears gathered in my eyes. I am such an idiot! I thought angrily. I cupped my injured hand to my chest and got ready to run off back to my house and hid under my blankets.

"Stop… right there, young lady," Mr. Jones demanded in a deep voice that clearly said no arguments.

My feet halted on the sidewalk then refused to go any further.

"Get back here, girl," he demanded.

Once again, of their own accord, my feet took me back to my spot on his steps. The look on his face made my stomach twist in knots as he held his hand out for mine.

"I'm sorry that I dropped your pie," I whispered quietly, shamefully.

"You hurt your hand, didn't you?" He asked while he ignored my apology.

I hid my hands behind my back, not wanting him to see the burn, though I didn't understand why.

"Answer me, young lady. I don't like to ask twice," Mr. Jones growled.

I felt my stomach clench again anxiously, and I slowly pulled my hand from behind my back. Right over the tips of my fingers sat bright, red burn. This injury wasn't too bad. Having been burned several times before, I knew what bad was. But I could not seem to bring myself to tell Mr. Jones that he didn't need to bother with my injury. The look in his brown eyes was no longer sweet and inviting; they were hard and unwavering, keeping me silent.

He held out one big hand that I knew would easily dwarf my smaller one. Hesitantly, I laid my hand in his allowing him to inspect the damage. He looked at the fingers for a moment before turning my hand over, making sure not to miss a single wound.

"Come inside. I have a first aid kit in the kitchen," he told me.

Shocked, I tried to jerk my hand back, but he wouldn't let it go. He pinned me with his no-nonsense gaze again.

"Oh!" I breathed out in response. "It's okay. I—"

"Young lady, what did I just say?" he grumbled.

"I… Ummm," I stuttered out, shrinking back a bit at Mr. Jones's firm tone.

Swallowing the bit of anxiety that clogged my throat, I tried to speak again. However, the words that spilled out hadn't been the ones I was thinking of.

"You said to follow you inside," I replied meekly.

"Good girl," he praised.

He gave me a smile that melted the anxiety away and made me happy to have kept my protest to myself.

Stepping out of my way, he waved me inside. Slowly, I stepped inside and walked down the long hallway towards the bar in the back of his house. I'd been in this place several times when the Kensey's had owned it. However, with Mr. Jones living in it, the house took on a different vibe. More… intense, stark, overbearing, yet there was a sense of underlining comfort. A small part of me still wanted to run away and hide underneath my blankets with my stuff penguin, Leroy. Yet another part of me wanted to stand still and soak up everything I could until it completely consumed me.

Neither desire I understood. Instead, I slowly walked to the bar and waited for Mr. Jones. He swept around the counter and opened a box sitting on the counter, grabbing out a small white container with big red letters on it. He reached out for my hand with a silent expecting look.

"Oh! I can handle this part!" I insisted.

Frowning at me, Mr. Jones said nothing and just waited until I complied. Once more, I laid my hand in his and watched as he looked over each individual red mark that was already beginning to fade.

I smiled happily, excited that he could see I was not hurt too badly. But, when I looked up proudly, Mr. Jones still had a frown on his face. With his other hand, he began to touch each tiny scar I had. There wasn't a lot, but his finger found every one of them, and his frown grew darker each time.

"Are you just learning to cook, hon?" he asked gently despite the look on his face.

"No, Sir," I answered. "I've been cooking since I was six."

He touched the most recent scar, a rather nasty one on my forearm; a grease burn.

"I'm very accident-prone," I told him with a giggle.